


In or Out

by Midnight_Run



Series: New Dangan Ronpa v3 Short Stories [2]
Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, New Dangan Ronpa V3 Spoilers, POV Saihara Shuichi, Post-New Dangan Ronpa V3 Chapter 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-09 20:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13489632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnight_Run/pseuds/Midnight_Run
Summary: In which something begins or nothing does and sometimes the lies we allow ourselves to believe make all the difference.





	In or Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EvilMuffins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilMuffins/gifts).



> One of three small gifts... though the others are _absolutely_ going to be late as they turned out to be a bit more time-consuming to write, but I loved your prompts so there _will_ be more stuff coming eventually. I hope you enjoy this one though. Cheers! :)
> 
> This occurs the night following the close of chapter two and contains spoilers for the game up to that point as well as some minor spoilers for the love hotel event.

_“Sometimes you lie to deceive people. Sometimes you lie because you need the lie to become the truth.”_  
― Rick Riordan, The Ship of the Dead

**+++**

 

Shuichi woke panting, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his head like the pick-axes of a dozen tiny miners chiseling their names into his _brain_.

Yet even as his heartbeat slowed to something less riotous and the pain in his head began to dissipate, the beat drummed on and he began to realize- far more slowly than he probably should have- that there was a rhythm to the sound, something almost playful. He couldn't quite place it, but it seemed familiar, a tune he knows but can't name.

Which was about the same time that he realized that the sound was coming from his door.

Someone was knocking, had been knocking, for a while.

A steady beat that had persisted for long minutes while he sat in bed, blinking stupidly into the darkness, trying and failing to regain his bearings.

The worst thing about the room was that there was no way to tell what time it was except for the announcements. 

The morning announcement hadn't sounded yet, but that didn't mean anything. 

The knocking continued, relentless.

Whoever it was, they _weren't_ going to stop.

Even before he stumbled to his feet and shuffled to the door he had a bad feeling about what would be waiting for him on the other side, about  _who_ would be waiting. And, when he finally yanked the door open, he wasn't disappointed. Oma Kokichi stood on his doorstep, knuckles rapping against empty space, his eyes comically wide as if he were surprised he'd answered the door at all.

Why was he only ever right about the things he _wanted_ to be wrong about?

They stood staring at each other for long moments, Oma's hand still floating between them like a misplaced comma as they gaped at each other.

It was weird.

He wasn't sure he'd ever seen Oma rendered speechless before. Hadn't even been certain such a thing was even possible and really wasn't sure why it was happening now, on his doorstep, during what was presumably still the middle of the night since the lobby was deserted and the world outside the sliding doors was still dark.

"What is it?" He croaked finally, grimacing at how rough his voice sounded.

Oma just continued to stare at him blankly like he hadn't heard him, mouth hanging open just a bit and cheeks flushed, his hand still hovering in the air between him, forgotten.

It was probably a lie, but it was a pretty convincing one. 

"Are you okay, Oma-kun?" He asked, softening in spite of himself. "Did something happen?"

His words seemed to snap him out of whatever weird mood had momentarily gripped him and he reeled back a step, drawing his arm back in as he glared at him. He thought about reminding him that he was the one knocking on his door at way-too-early in the morning, but then Oma had finally spoken, his voice soft and vaguely accusatory, "You're not wearing pants."

Warmth flooded his face as he glanced down reflexively to find that Oma wasn't lying.

He usually slept clothed because it was just... it was hard to relax, to let his guard down, with everything that had happened, was happening, but last night....

It was strange, he thought dully, as he stared down at his bare feet and legs, pale and bony and almost skeletal in the dim light of the entry, but until Oma had pointed out his lack of pants, he'd forgotten about everything that had happened.

There wasn't any excuse for it, probably, to forget something so immense, but he had.

The events of the day came flooding back with the force of a blow, a black wave of grief that swept over him and pulled him under to flounder useless in the shallow, churning waters of despair.

The magic show, Hoshi’s body floating lifeless in the tank one moment before it became nothing but a sinking bones the next.

The investigation, the trial, the truth, Tojo's plea and her desperate escape attempt.

Her blood oozing, slow and reluctant, across the flat grey concrete floor of the trial grounds where she had fallen to her death.

The taste of bile is sour on his tongue.

Everything had happened so fast after that.

Harukawa had held Oma up in the air, her hand wrapped around his throat like a vise and he continued to taunt her even as his voice grew increasingly strained and his face flushed darker and darker like he didn't care if he _did_ die. Or maybe he didn't believe she'd do anything to hurt him. It was impossible to tell, but watching them had made him feel sick. It had been terrible and disconcerting and he'd just _stood_ there, frozen, _useless,_ as Momota talked her down and Gokuhara took hold of Oma from behind, supporting his weight easily as he began to gently pry her fingers from his throat until she made a disgusted sound and dropped him altogether, leaving him dangling awkwardly in Gokuhara's arms, laughing hoarsely his face turned down and hidden by the fall of his hair.

She'd turned on her heel and stomped off back toward the dormitory with Momota dogging her heels, calling after her even though that only seemed to make her walk more quickly.

Gokuhara had set Oma back on the ground gently, his brows furrowed in concern as Oma stumbled over to flop on the ground, back resting against one of the short retaining walls that lined the courtyard. Gokuhara followed, hovering, his hands floating awkwardly in the air between them as oma laughed and waved away his concern with a lie about having never felt better even though he had tears in his eyes and his face was still too blotchy to be considered anything close to normal.

Everyone else began to drift off alone or in small groups with murmured excuses he barely heard at all as they wandered back toward the dormitory.  

And still he stood there, unable to decide what to do or whether he should do anything at all.

One of Gokuhara's big hands landed against his shoulder, jarring him from his stagnating thoughts. His smile was kind, but sad, "Saihara-kun did his best. Should rest soon."

"Um, yeah, of course, um, thanks," he replied, forcing a weak smile. "You too."

And then Gokuhara had gone and he'd been left alone with Oma, who was still flopped back against the wall, his head canted back against the stone so he could stare up into the star-speckled sky above, his face wiped clean of all expression.

He probably should have thanked him for earlier.

Or yelled at him for outing Harukawa the way he had.

But he hadn't been able to find the words or the energy to say anything at all.

Eventually it had been Oma who had broken the silence, his soft voice loud as thunder against the quiet of the night around them, "Hey, Saihara-chan? Want to play hide and seek?"

He wasn't sure whether he should laugh or cry or throw something at him so, in the end, he hadn't done anything at all.

When he'd finally left the courtyard and returned to the dormitory, the lobby had been deserted except for Momota leaning against Harukawa's door saying something he couldn't quite hear.

He wanted to thank him for everything he'd done, but it felt rude to interrupt so he'd just gone straight back to his room instead. 

His room was too quiet.

So he'd hastily grabbed clean shorts and a t-shirt and turned on the shower.

The water was warm, but it didn't help.

He felt sick.

If he'd been better at this detective thing maybe he'd have been able to see what was happening… to stop it.

To have done something when it really _mattered_.

Would Tojo really have killed someone if Hoshi hadn't presented her an easy target?

Would Hoshi have submitted to death so easily if he'd given him another reason to live, a _better_ reason?

Would Akamatsu have set that trap if he'd been just a little more trustworthy, a little more reliable?

If he'd knocked on Amami’s door instead Akamatsu’s that day, could he have saved them both?

Could he have kept the killing game from starting in the first place?

Once he'd started down that spiraling road of what-ifs and might-have-beens it had been impossible to stop.

What clues had he missed?

What leads should he have followed?

What could he have done differently?

What _should_ he have done differently? 

The rabbit hole led forever downward and there'd still been no end in sight by the time the water had turned cold and he'd abandoned it, shivering as he pulled on the clothes he'd brought into the bathroom with him before shutting out the lights and stumbling into bed. 

"Only _perverts_ answer the door without pants," Oma commented, summoning him from his thoughts. his earlier anger seemed to have given way to something curious and sly and there was a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "Are you a _pervert_ , Saihara-chan?"

He was torn between the idea of slamming the door in his smug face and obeying that niggling little voice in the back of his head that demanded he solve the mystery of what had brought Oma to his door so early in the morning in the first place.

He'd thought if anyone was going to manage to sleep the whole night through it would be _Oma_.

And yet there he stood.

Wide awake and dressed in the same uniform he always wore.

Not that that would have been a surprise normally since there was nothing else for them to wear, but he could tell from how crumpled and dirty it was that it was the same one from the day before.

He had a feeling that if he reached out and touched him, he'd find his skin still carried some lingering notes of the night's chill. 

"Did you only just come inside?" 

"What?" Oma replied, flustered and a little too quickly. "No."

"That's a lie."

Oma glared at him and he knew he was right. 

"So?" Oma replied, folding an arm defensively across his stomach and glancing disinterestedly at the nails of his free hand as if they were a thousand times more interesting than he could ever hope to be."Only a _monster_ wouldn't have trouble sleeping after everything that happened. Though maybe not, hm? You certainly don't seem to have had any problems, huh, Saihara-chan?"

His smile, when he glanced up at him, was small and wicked and his eyes seemed to glitter with mischief in the dim light of the entryway.

 _Play with me_ , that smile said. _Play with me._

Had he really come knocking just to convince him to play a game with him?

And, if so, what kind of game was it?

And why did he even care?

It wasn't like he wanted to play with him.

Especially not after everything that had happened.

All he really wanted to do was sleep.

And maybe put on some pants.

But if he retreated now Oma would definitely consider it a forfeiture of whatever weird game they were playing this time.

If they were playing a game at all.

Which they probably weren't.

There was no way Oma's reason for banging on his door was anything so benign as a simple game.

Probably.

Though then again....

His head _ached_.

Trying to figure Oma out _always_ made his head ache.

It was frustrating.

 _He_ was frustrating.

But there was no point in being angry with him, being angry at Oma for being _Oma_ was like being angry at the sun for rising.

“What can I do for you, Oma-kun?” He asked finally, as politely as he could.

“Do I have to have a _reason_ to want to see my beloved Saihara-chan?” Oma replied, unperturbed. 

He knew it was a lie, but those weird unexpected comments always made his face burn like he'd been out in the sun too long.

Oma just smiled innocently like he had no idea how uncomfortable he was making him.

Which was definitely another lie.

Maybe if he just waited long enough, the world would open up and swallow him whole and it wouldn't matter what was a lie and what was the truth or whether he was wearing _pants_.

“What do you _want_?” The question came out rough and far more plaintive than he would have liked.

If Oma noticed, he chose not to comment.

Which probably should have made him feel better about it, but if anything it just put him more on edge.

Oma's smile seemed sinister and sly as he rocked back and forth on his heels, arms folded back behind his head, “Maybe I just wanted to check on you.”

“ _That's_ a lie," he muttered, the words slipping out before he could think better of it.

Oma laughed, high and delighted and way too loud. “You're right, it is. As expected, even when you're wallowing in self-pity, you're still good enough to see through me.”

It felt like he should be slamming the door in his face or telling him to shut up or… _something_ , but he'd always been bad on his feet and as usual Oma seemed to make everything worse so he ended up shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, still terribly conscious of the fact that he was loitering in his doorway in the dead of night in less than he's ever worn in front of any person who wasn't family and that at any minute someone could- and probably would- wake up and walk out of their room and see him there.

Like that.

Half-naked.

With Oma.

Who was still wearing yesterday's uniform.

He was pretty sure if there was one thing that could make being trapped in a school where people kept dying and he couldn't do anything to save them worse it was _that_.

“Maybe I just don't want to be alone?” Oma offered, his laughter gone as if it had never been as he tilted his head down so his features were momentarily lost in shadow. 

And he _knew_ he didn't mean it.

Of _course_ , he didn't mean it.

It was a lie.

It had to be.

Just another lie.

Like every other lie he'd ever told.

Only... he didn't know that for certain.

He couldn't know for certain.

Because Oma didn't _just_ lie. If every word out of his mouth had been a lie than it would have been easy to know, to tell, but it wasn't, because he wasn’t just a liar. So maybe... _maybe_ this was the truth or part of it. 

Maybe it was....

It was really hard to breathe and his entire body felt warm and itchy as he shifted nervously from foot to foot and glared down at Oma's bent head like it might hold all the answers.

Which it _did_ , of course, but staring at it wasn't going to allow him access to any of Oma's secrets.

What was he even hoping for?

He wasn't sure.

“Is that another lie?” He asked finally, hesitantly, regretting the question the moment it passed his lips.

Oma glanced back up at him and cocked his head to the side as if he were listening to a voice from far away. His was smile firmly in place once more, but there was something in the tilt of his head that set his teeth on edge.

“You're the detective, Saihara-chan. Shouldn't you tell me?”

He stepped forward and very deliberately reached out and curled his fingers around the very edge of the door frame.

If he closed the door now, he had this terrible unshakable certainty that Oma wouldn't move and the falling door would chop the tips of his fingers clean off.

And, whether because of the lateness of the hour or the lack of sleep, but he couldn't imagine them falling lifelessly to the floor if he did; it seemed somehow inevitable that they would instead skitter across the wall like cockroaches fleeing the light to nest in the corners of his room and he'd be able to hear his nails tapping, scratching in corners, always just out of sight.

Oma's fingertips drummed against the frame, impatient.

In the elevator ride back to the surface, after the trial, they'd all stood huddled together, quiet and miserable.

And he'd stood in the center of them all alone except for that same old voice in the back of his head, reminding him yet again that he really was a uniquely terrible choice for a title like Ultimate Detective and for probably the thousandth time since he'd woken up in that stupid locker he had wished fervently that he'd just left that stupid case unsolved. That he'd never helped his uncle with anything. That he'd just kept his head down and gone unnoticed and unremarked and ended up at a normal school like a normal person or... or... _something._

He wasn't cut out for this.

 _Any_ of it.

No matter what Akamatsu or Momota or anyone else said.

He wasn't any good at this.

He couldn't save anyone.

And he hadn't.

He'd startled badly when a hand had brushed against his own and he'd thought… he wasn't sure _what_ he'd thought, actually. All he knew was that he hadn’t realized Oma had been standing beside him until that moment, wasn't even sure he actually had been.

That was the funny thing about Oma.

He was easy to miss, but impossible to ignore once you noticed him. It was why he was so good at hide and seek, he realized as Oma’s fingers had brushed against his own a second time.  

When he glanced over at him, he wasn't surprised to find that Oma wasn't paying any attention to him at all. Instead he was just staring up at the ceiling, his expression drawn and his eyes rimmed in red.

And if it were real, he thought it might be the most honest expression he'd ever seen on him.

 _If_ it were real.

Because it might have been.

Or it might have just been another lie.

He couldn't tell and- for once- he hadn't really wanted to know. Not with the memory of her frantic, ugly escape attempt still so fresh in his mind and his chest aching for being the one who helped back her into that corner... even if it had been for everyone's sake.

If it was a lie, he was grateful for it.

And if it was true, than he was still grateful for whatever twisted machination had led Oma to bump their fingers together because, lie or truth, it had _helped_.

It had helped, because he'd never felt as alone as he had in that moment. Not when he'd first woken up, not when he'd ridden the elevator back from the trial grounds by himself after Akamatsu's execution, his face aching and his mind still numb. Akamatsu... had wanted things to turn out as they had, had wanted them to survive. It felt wrong that her death should be easier, should have made him feel less awful than Tojo's, but it did nonetheless.

There were some truths you couldn't change.

Some lies that could never be believed.

Oma Kokichi was not his friend.

He couldn’t really imagine him being anyone’s friend.

He didn't hate him or even dislike him, not really, but whatever it was he did feel about him had become a hot, snarled knot of confusion in his chest that he couldn’t figure out how to define and wasn’t altogether certain he would want to even if he could summon the words to describe it accurately.

He'd dreamed about him.

About confronting him in that tacky pink room, detective versus thief, and how strange it had been to realize that to Oma he was still himself or close enough that it had set his nerves on edge. He was pretty sure that he’d never forget what the edge of that bed had felt like as it had pressed against the back of his knees.

Or how he’d wanted to call him back, to ask him to stay. 

And how impossible it had seemed to find the words that would make it happen.

Whatever he felt for Oma… it wasn’t anything simple or easy.

But as they stood in the dark of the elevator together, his chest had been heavy with guilt for all the ways he’d failed them and the memory of the way her blood had seeped across the tile floor- how it had run into the spaces between and stained them dark- had been too fresh in his mind and Oma had been  _there_.

Whatever his reason, Oma had been standing beside him, close enough to touch, when even Gokuhara and Momota had chosen to give him space.

Not that he’d blamed them for that.

Oma’s fingers had brushed his skin a third time and even though he still couldn’t tell if that touch was coincidence or a lie or just the prelude to another game, he knocked his knuckles back against his, a warning, before he twisted his hand around and caught and threaded their fingers together.

Oma’s expression- when he chanced a glance at it out of the corner of his eye- had been as blank as paper and he still hadn't been looking at him at all.

In fact, he had been very _determinedly_   not looking at him and he was pretty sure he hadn't been breathing either, though it had been difficult to tell with just a glance.

Still, whatever his reason, Oma hadn’t shaken free of him, hadn’t called attention them, hadn’t done any of the things he’d have been half-terrified he would do if he'd bothered to take the time to think about it.

The elevator had kept rising and he'd kept hold of his hand.

Oma’s fingers had been warm and soft and holding his hand hadn't made him feel any better- not really- but it'd been... _something_.

The elevator had arrived with a soft ding of sound and the heavy metallic clatter of the cage door drawing back to release all the animals penned away inside and it had been over.

They'd all spilled out like water bursting through the seals of a overtaxed levy into the courtyard beyond and he'd lost his tentative hold on Oma as someone shoved at his back to urge him to move faster even though they were all already going as fast as they could.

“Saihara-chan?”

He startled back as Oma breathed the words warm across his cheek.

And then the elevator was a memory once more and the dormitory was silent around him and Oma was standing so close he could see the almost invisible dusting of freckles across his nose.

When had he gotten so close?

Why hadn't he noticed?

Oma was so short that in order to call attention to himself like do that he had to stand on tiptoe, had braced a hand against his arm and his fingers were like ice.

They'd seemed so warm before.

“It's rude not to pay attention when someone is talking to you, Saihara-chan.”

Oma’s lips were dry, chapped and just a little sharp in places as they brushed across his cheek and he laughed like he'd just made some joke only he could understand, but even that laugh was different from his usual snicker. It was a soft, a barely audible huff of sound, striking only because he was normally so loud, so intent on being noticed, on being... found.

He hadn't been able to help them.

Not Akamatsu or Amami or Hoshi or Tojo.

He hadn't been able to do anything for them. He hadn't trusted them and they hadn't trusted him, hadn't trusted _any_ of them, enough to help them when they needed it most.

Later they would all tell themselves that there had been nothing they could do and they'll vow to do better, be better, and maybe they will… and maybe they won't.

Maybe they were just doomed to repeat that same cycle of distrust and desperation over and over again until there really were only two of them left.

But he wanted to be better than that.

Better for himself and better for them.

Good enough that there won't be another murder or another execution and if he wanted to make that happen, if he wanted them to have a chance… he needed to start somewhere.

In Oma’s fantasy, he had been himself, or at least _mostly_ himself, and knowing that was enough to allow him to borrow a little confidence and extend his arm, nudging the door wider with his hip until the gap was wide enough that Oma could easily pass through the space between his body and the doorframe and walk inside.

And just that simple act, that unspoken invitation, was enough to set his heart racing again. He wasn't the sort of person who took chances, he never had been. He was anxious and curious, but one rarely allowed the other the room to breathe much less to make impulsive choices like inviting a proven liar into his room in the small hours of the morning when no one was around to witness it.

Not that he'd _want_ anyone to see him standing around half-naked as he invited Oma into his room.

He could already imagine the endless hell of Iruma’s needling if she saw them like that and imagining it was bad enough.

It was just….

He really didn't know very much about Oma at all.

Which should have freaked him out a lot more than it did.

Because there was every possibility that he was going to invite Oma into his room and he was going to die for it and he would have no one to blame but himself.

  
Only he didn't really believe that was going to happen, because if he _did_ he'd never have offered in the first place.

Probably.

Only maybe he wouldn't have to worry about whether Oma was going to smother him with a pillow, because Oma hadn't moved.

He stood frozen in place in the doorway and while he couldn't see his face, he could feel his body trembling, vibrating with tension or fear or laughter or something else altogether.

He was so close that when he turned his head to look at him, he could smell his shampoo, which smelled exactly like he would imagine lies would probably smell: sweet and a little foul, like fruit souring in the sun.

“You can come inside,” he said the words quietly, whispered them into the dark of Oma's hair like they were a secret even though there was no one else around to hear them. 

Oma had always seemed so smug during the trials and in all those times between, so distant, as if nothing that happened could truly touch him, as if nothing about him was even real. As if he truly believed everything they'd gone through had all just been part of some elaborate game. Sometimes it seemed as if, to him, the world was just one big game and he was nothing more than a spoilt child who had never learned to treat his toys with respect.

At least that was how it had seemed.

But the Oma who let him hold his hand in the elevator?

The Oma that was standing, trembling, in his doorway?

The one whose breath was a quick, panicked warmth across his cheek? 

He didn't know that Oma at all.

That Oma seemed as if he were no different than the rest of them as if he were just another kid, scared and alone, trapped in a world they couldn't understand or escape.

Which was the lie?

Which was real?

He reached a hand out unsteadily to settle against Oma's back, to press firmly against the soft sturdy cloth of his shirt, to urge him closer.

There was a noise, soft and shrill, like a trapped animal squealing for aid, but he wasn't sure who made it. It seemed like it could have been either of them or both as he felt Oma’s free hand gathering and twisting the edge of his T-shirt, winding it around his fist so that it yanks, tugging until the collar is an uncomfortable pressure against the side of his throat.

He wasn't sure what it was supposed to mean or if it was supposed to mean anything at all.

Whether it was a threat or a request or just reflex or all those things at once. It seemed possible, _anything_ seemed possible where Oma was concerned. He knew nothing about him, nothing certain. All he really had were guesses and assumptions and every conclusion he'd drawn until that moment felt like it'd been built on a shifting foundation that was likely to crumble beneath the weight of too many lies or too much truth.

It was like they were playing a game, some stupid kid’s game to see who would blink first and it made him feel weird, made his stomach twist up in knots, because he's never wanted to play Oma’s games, but he still kept finding himself playing them anyway.

Oma hadn't tried to escape, to slip free of his grip, instead he'd just let himself be drawn in as if he wanted to see how far he would go, how far he would take it.

By the time he had Oma pressed so tightly against him he could feel every breath he took, he was starting to panic, because he hadn't planned for that. He'd really expected him to weasel away from him by then, to drop the act and laugh or duck past him into the room to poke fun at the few mementos he'd kept of his time there, memories of the people he'd lost, failed. He expects Oma will laugh at his pointless sentimentality and that in and of itself should have been enough reason to put a stop to it, to push him away and slam the door in his face.

Instead he just stood there, Oma pressed so close now that it felt like they really were doing something illicit, like Monokuma should be popping out of nowhere to stop them, to change the rules again, but he doesn't. Nothing happens and they remained trapped together in the doorway, in the moment, neither willing to be the first to give, but it didn't feel like stubbornness and it tasted a little bit like fear.

They weren't hugging, not really, they were just two people standing really, _really_ close, closer than he's ever been to anyone really who wasn't family.

It was weird.

 _They_ were weird.

And for all the time he'd spent with Oma, trying desperately to understand him, he was well aware that there was a divide there he'd never have any hope of crossing without help.

Oma’s breath shuddered against his cheek and then down his throat as he fell back on his heels, away from him.

He was so small.

It was easy to forget that.

He always seemed larger somehow when he was talking and teasing and lying and generally being a jerk, but the darkness and silence of the moment seemed to have hollowed him out and crushed him like an empty drink can until all that was left was the condensed essence of who he truly was.

Whoever that might be.

He wanted to know and he doesn't. Oma seemed more dangerous than anyone else sometimes, most times, like a bomb that was just waiting for someone to come along and start the countdown.

“Trying to get rid of me, Saihara-chan?” Oma inquired, his tone flat and bored as if he couldn't care less what the answer might be. “You’ll hurt my feelings.”

And it's on the tip of his tongue to snap off a denial, to shake his head and protest the accusation, but he doesn’t.

Instead he leaned down, terribly aware that his free hand was still resting against Oma’s back, “Do you even have feelings?”

He wasn't sure what he expected.

Crocodile tears or mock offense, maybe. 

Whatever it was, it wasn't what he got, which was Oma's hand sliding up and around the back of his neck.

"As the leader of an evil organization," Oma began, voice still soft and flat. "I've probably killed people for less." 

The sound of a lock turning, of a deadbolt scrapping against metal and wood, echoed through the lobby as sudden and unexpected as thunder on a clear day. He startled badly, yelping and flailing as adrenaline rushed his system and whether he grabbed Oma or Oma collided with him, they still ended up tripping, falling, tumbling backwards into his room to sprawl painfully across the tiles within.

The door fell shut behind them now that there's no one there to hold it, taking the dim light of the lobby with it and leaving them in the darkness of his room as the door clicked shut. There was a terrible finality to it, like a funeral dirge or a gunshot.

For someone so small, Oma was surprisingly heavy, like he was hiding weights in his pockets or rocks or bombs. It was weird having someone laying on top of him, between his legs and across his chest and he's pretty sure if he thinks about it too hard, thinks about all the places Oma is touching him, he’ll never be able to look him in the face again, so he doesn't think about it. He doesn't think about _anything_ and if he nudged his fingers against the side of his head it was just to make sure he was awake and not at all because he wanted to touch him.

His hair wasn't as soft as it looked.

Oma raised his head from his chest and his eyes were wide and bright, his cheeks flushed, and it was still impossible to tell what he was thinking.

It was like being in the love hotel again, but a thousand times worse, because Oma wasn't running away this time. Wasn't doing anything much besides starring down at him with wide eyes.

"I had a dream like this once."

He startled a little at the unexpected words, his eyes darting across Oma's placid expression.

Nothing, still nothing.

It would have taken more courage than he’d ever possessed to offer a response that wasn’t an excuse or a denial. The best he can manage is silence.

His face was hot and his throat was tight and he wished fervently that the ground would just open up and swallow him whole.

Then Oma was laughing, cackling, his whole face lighting up with amusement as he sat back on his heels, hands resting on his bent legs, his amusement a stuttering hiss of sound like a sprinkler or a sputtering faucet.

It's weird.

 _He's_ weird.

And it's almost more than he can _take_.

He probably should never have opened that door.

But he was also perversely glad he had.

He collapsed back against the carpet to stare up at the ceiling while Oma continued to laugh and laugh and laugh.

And then he was laughing with him, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the world so that all that was left was the sound of laughter and Oma's weight across his thighs, pinning him to the ground, reminding him that he wasn't alone.

It seemed like they might laugh forever.

And if they did, well, there were probably worse fates to be had.

Probably.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I like the idea of stolen moments and scenes between scenes. It's something I write quite frequently for other fandoms so when I saw it in your list of prompts I couldn't resist.
> 
> The song Oma's tapping against the door is Teru Teru Bozu because he is a terrible human being and so am I.
> 
> Prompts Used:  
> -Anything involving the Love Hotel  
> -A moment of tense/uneasy downtime in between murders  
> -The effects of a lie, whether good or bad
> 
> There is a good possibility I'll probably add more to this at some point as it was very fun to write, but for the moment it's complete as is.


End file.
